


The Client

by TerenceFletcher



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Human Castiel, Humor, Idiots in Love, M/M, Mechanic Dean, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-12
Updated: 2016-08-12
Packaged: 2018-08-07 16:24:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,561
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7721674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TerenceFletcher/pseuds/TerenceFletcher
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the prompt:<br/>"Cas’ car breaks down so he takes it to Bobby’s garage for repairs. Dean is the one who works on the car..."<br/>taken from <a href="http://destieldrabblesdaily.tumblr.com/promptslist">here</a> with a kind permission of amazing <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/users/destieldrabblesdaily/pseuds/destieldrabblesdaily">destieldrabblesdaily</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Client

**Author's Note:**

> I own neither prompt nor idea of this, so if the author shows up, I'll add the credit.  
> I just fell in love with this story and failed to walk by.

"Lincoln Continental Mark V," Bobby said, handing Dean the keys.  
  
The name itself made Dean wince; the car should have been no better, not with its age and make. He did not have a clue why would someone want to repair it.

"The client's waiting outside," Bobby added. "Wants to kiss his treasure goodbye."

He was, indeed. A man in a black Walmart suit, standing beside the light-brown Lincoln with a solemn look of an orphan near a fresh grave. Dean could see just his messy dark hair and back, straight as a billboard. Even through the rusty blinds of Bobby's office, his first thought was that the client and the car were worth each other.

"He wants us to bury it, uh?"

"He wants its brakes fixed, you idjit," Bobby snapped, and Dean smirked at a sudden guess that a fancy funeral had already been offered.

"Okay, Bobby," he said. "The grandpa will get a helluva treatment here. I'll see to it".

  
*

  
"So, what's wrong with her brakes?" Dean asked as he approached the car.

The client's hand was still resting on a hood as if soothing a sick animal. At the sound of Dean's voice, he jerked and glanced up.

He was younger than Dean thought at first, maybe in his late twenties, and he definitely looked better than his car, Dean noticed as he shortly kept his glance on smart dark-blue eyes and high cheekbones. Full lips, even shut tight, softened the otherways haughty expression. They seemed almost as out of place on his face, as the flippant blue tie on a tailored black suit.

"They—" he started but halted abruptly. For a few moments, he stared at Dean, his head tilted aside and lips slightly apart. His entire body was unreasonably tense. Dean wondered shortly what it was he had seen to make him stare like that. The last he checked, there were his greasy t-shirt and pants but those hardly could attract such an attention. "They sometimes do not work properly."

Dean bent down and shed a quick glance at the wheels expecting to see worn out brake disks for the start. To his surprise, they seemed okay, even having some margin left. "Is it kinda pedal gets spongy and sinks down with no effect?"

"Yes. I suppose the brake system should not function that way."

"You bet." Still crouched beside the car, Dean asked, "Do you mind turning the wheels?"

The client looked puzzled.

"Which way?"

"Any. I'd like to see if it leaks outta there."

"Of course."

Dean set down on his knees waiting to slide his hand in and touch the tubes. The wheel turned with a plaintive shriek, opening the gap.

"All dry," Dean announced after a brief inspection. "Huh. How often does it fly off the handle?"

"It happened twice already," the client was back outside, now with a light-brown trenchcoat hanging from his elbow. "I would not like it to happen for the third time."

"I need to lift it up. You in a hurry?"

There was a moment of hesitation, the reason for it hardly possible to identify.

"Not exactly," he said finally.

He was staring at Dean again, with the same unreadable expression, frowning, eyebrows furrowed. Since they started talking, his glance (and Dean would name it undressing if he had been asked) never touched the car anymore.

"Awesome. It's gonna take—" He paused, feeling uneasy under these studying eyes. "Yeah, a while."

"So when do you think it might be ready?" Dean was still putting up an answer when he heard the client's voice again, saying a bit unexpectedly, "Should I check up with it tomorrow?"

"No need, man," Dean said. "Bobby'll give you a call."

For a while, the client was silent and thinking hard, as if weighing the probability. His face was serious and overly concerned all the way through, so when a cautious smile appeared in a corner of his mouth, it came all of a sudden. "Mr. Singer has my number."

Dean flashed back a usual meaningless smile, raised by a habit of being nice to clients. "Sure thing, he does. Don't you worry, man."

"Castiel. My name is Castiel Novak."

"Pleasure," Dean replied. "I'm Dean."

"I'll be waiting for the call, Dean."

Dean nodded, and before he got up, he casually wiped his dirty palms on the pants. He was not sure if he really should shake hands with this weird guy, it just seemed right as a part of the responsibility for his car. "Look, I—"

The client was gone, his coat just a light spot behind the gates.

  
*

  
It took Dean a good half of the next day to find the tiny crack in the tube bend that caused the pressure surge. He replaced the damaged tube, re-filled the brake fluid and made a couple of circles around the garage to ensure everything was okay. He had a strong feeling that neither this car nor its driver would survive the third time.

By the time he finished he was too exhausted to meet the client. He dropped the keys onto Bobby's desk and left before dark.

Next morning the Lincoln was nowhere to be seen in a garage parking lot.

"He hung around here for almost an hour," Bobby complained as Dean asked if the client had been happy.

"Something wrong?"

"Nah. Missing you, maybe?"

"Shut up," Dean mumbled, somewhat irritated. He could not help questioning himself why would a guy with the manners of a high school teacher and an outfit of a half-time accountant act like he was missing someone—or at least looking that way.

On second thought, Dean gave it up. He had work to be finished before the end of the week, and that was obviously much more important.

  
*

  
Over the weekend, Dean almost forgot both the Lincoln and its owner. On Friday night, Sammy came over to visit and they were out until morning, so Saturday ended soon, leaving behind nothing but a memory of a slight hangover and burger taste in the mouth. They spent Sunday at Jody's with beers and BBQ Dean was serving and got home right before it was too late to sleep and too early to get up.

It was Bobby who jarred his memory on Monday.

"That Novak guy called again this morning," he told Dean. "Said it smells oil inside."

"It smells oil everywhere, Bobby. The bucket is nearly forty, everything would smell at that age," Dean said, thinking to himself that he knew only one car that did not—his Baby.

"He pays cash and never argues the bill. He'll come in the afternoon, so make sure you are here."

"I'm off shift."

"Not anymore." With a quiet growl, Bobby shifted in his chair, then looked up and pointed at Dean with his index finger. "Day-off tomorrow and this is the best deal in town."

The Lincoln drove in at half past five. Dean waved a greeting and ducked inside to sniff the air. A thick, heavy odor of burnt oil made his eyes sting.

"No shit," he admitted a minute later. "Stinks like hell."

The client—Castiel, Dean recalled vaguely—nodded. He did not seem anxious, as anyone would probably be, having a smell of a heated frying pan in the car. He was looking at Dean and waiting for his sentence.

"Do you think this is serious, Dean?"

"The oil was somehow dripping on hot parts of an exhaust system," Dean said. "Must be a bad joint."

"How bad?"

Dean chuckled. "Enough to keep me busy tonight."

"I'm sorry about that. If you had something planned—"

He looked visibly upset, so Dean waved a hand in dismissal, "Nope. I'm fine, Cas." He swallowed a curse and added, "Huh, sorry—Castiel."

"Cas is fine."

"You sure? Sometimes I just ... well, never mind."

"I am sure." He got out of the car and stopped near Dean, the keys clinging in his hand. "May I come in to watch the repair?"

"It's a service area. The clients are not admitted to—" That was all Dean managed to say before he cut off at a sight of expectant dark-blue eyes fixed on him. "Dammit ... Sure you may, Cas. It's pretty Fort Knox'ed inside, but intruders are not shot. Not without a notice."

Dean drove the Lincoln in. In a rear-view mirror, he saw Cas following him. His step was light and elegant, coat hanging loose like a gown. He halted in the middle of an empty garage, as if wary to interrupt, and froze still.

"C'mere," Dean invited with a sudden urge to play hospitality and pressed the Up button on the lift rack. "Watch it heading for Heaven."

Cas frowned at these words. "I hope it is not," he said, hurriedly putting back his polite expression. "At least not literally."

Dean laughed shortly in reply and started working on a leaking tube. Standing under the car, he could not actually see Cas, but the long shadow on the floor showed he came close.

"Have you been here for long?" Cas asked, breaking the silence.

"A short while. Bobby needed a hand before he hires. Once he's done, I'll go back."

"And where are you from?"

"Lawrence, Kansas. You?"

"Illinois."

Missing city and the tone it was said with made Dean think that home was hardly a safe topic. "Sioux Falls is great," he said to make it neutral.

"It definitely is," Cas agreed in a quiet voice. "I like it here."

They chatted just a little more before the repair was over and Dean hauled the car down from the lift.

"Call Bobby for a bill," he said. "And it might still smell a bit, so you'd better leave the windows open."

"Thank you for attending to my car, Dean." Cas took the keys and paused as if reluctant to get in. "Is it safe to drive it now?"

Dean slipped a wink. "A personal guardian angel is included into the price," he said.

  
*

  
After the oil case, Cas did not show up for three days. On the fourth, late in the evening, he made a dashing appearance accompanied by high-pitched metallic rasp.

"I've hit a road bump," he explained when Dean found the muffler pipe broken in two. "There was this loud scratching sound, but I hoped it was all right."

Dean raised his eyebrows but left it with no comment. He failed to imagine how an adult person could be so reckless. "It must've sparkled like Doc Emmet’s Delorean."

"Oh. I haven't noticed."

Bobby had left for the day, so Dean opened wide the garage door and welcomed Cas in.

"It looks like this car is on a vendetta with you," he said. "Never seen a Lincoln in need for repair so often."

Cas sighed and looked away. "It's a good car. It does not deserve my poor driving."

"No, I mean—" Dean was not sure if he was sounding offensive. "Just weird, uh?"

"Maybe."

"I like old cars," Dean said feeling he had to support him somehow. "They have a sort of personality, you know. Like they're alive. Sounds crazy but ... My Baby is a '67 Chevy Impala."

Cas looked up at him curiously. "Baby?"

"That's what I call her. Wanna see?"

"I'd like to."

They went outside to where the Impala was parked. The moon was already high up and its light reflected coldly on the roof and hood.

"It's beautiful," Cas said eyeing it with a charmed expression.

"She," Dean corrected. "I told you—they have personality."

"She ... she matches you," he said very seriously, and Dean felt a wave of warmth rising inside him. He chuckled to hide his embarrassment.

"I know."

Cas stayed late, waiting for Dean to finish. After the muffler was welded, and the Lincoln was back on the ground, Cas came around it.

"Dean—"

"Yeah?" He glanced shortly at the car wondering if there was something else to be repaired.

Cas squinted and half opened his mouth as if he was about to start speaking. While waiting, Dean could not help looking at his lips and thinking again that their color and shape were nice. The idea of doing a closer research on them looked appealing.   
  
"Cas?"

He scrubbed the back of his neck and looked away. "Nothing. Sorry."

Dean shrugged, not sure what to say. "That's all right. Take care on your way back."

"Thank you, Dean. It’s a rather short drive, in fact. I live nearby." He was back to normal, all traces of odd uneasiness, that Dean noticed a minute before, were gone.

"So much the better for Bobby's business," Dean grinned. "See ya later, buddy."

"Good night, Dean."

  
*

  
It didn't take long for Dean to realize he really wanted to see Cas later. Although their meetings could hardly be called dates, and dating someone with greasy black hands and having on a mechanic's uniform was probably not a good idea, on the back of his mind Dean liked them. He liked them more than he was ready to admit.

Oddish as he was with his eternal suit and a bookish way of speaking, Cas was nice and easy to chat with. He was indeed a teacher, not at a high school though, but at the Sioux Falls College. He taught ancient history and art, and quite predictably was oblivious to anything younger than Christ. This modern-cultural innocence was a bit weird but rather funny, so Dean openly enjoyed himself breaking it. He eagerly enlightened Cas on the best episodes of Star Wars for a start and was moving on to Indiana Jones.

Not telling much about himself, he was a good listener, his interest genuine and open. Occasionally he put questions about Dean's family and friends and looked pleased with the answers as if it meant something to him. Maybe it did, Dean thought, and maybe it really was of importance to better learn each other. Dean felt the same urge sometimes but suppressed it for the sake of safety. He knew he had never been good at relationships.

He just let it go, not looking further ahead.

"Your client is a box office hit," Bobby noted, once Dean reported a new order. "Is that the only car he owns?"

Dean laughed at this assumption. "Maserati's got a lifetime warranty." He didn't add that he would repair any car Cas would bring.

Cas was back in two days.

"You have to claim your regular customer bonus," Dean told him and smiled at the thought he was getting so used to his visits that already was expecting them. As long as they brought Cas, Dean did not mind servicing that unlucky Lincoln. "What now?"

"I'm afraid it's the window handle," Cas said with an apologetic smile and gestured at the driver's door. "Minor issue, but rather annoying given the current air temperature."

It kept steadily over eighty these days, Dean recalled with a glimpse of compassion. "That's too bad," he said.

"Will you be able to fix it?" Cas asked, his voice suddenly tense of worry.

"Sure, man. It's not a big deal, just gimme an hour." Dean looked at the broken handle. The plastic had rough torn edges as if some saber-tooth monster had bitten out of it. "But how the hell happened that?"

"I don't know. I just pulled it as usual, and—"

"Okay, okay, Superman, I got it," Dean said wincing at the tedious job he was facing. "Let me take the tools. You wanna wait here?"

"If you don't mind."

And of course, Dean didn't. Maybe, after all, it could work out.

That evening he didn't hurry to get the work done.

  
*

  
It ultimately did work out—but in an opposite way than Dean had anticipated.

The moment he saw the Lincoln crawling into the gates, he picked up the smell of gas. It was exuding from inside the engine compartment, and when Dean realized what the reason to that could be, his felt tingles down his spine.

Scared half to death, Dean rushed to the car and dragged Cas out. He didn't bother to excuse himself.

"Back off!" he screamed as he pulled the hood up, himself ready to jump away. He tried not to think of what would remain of him if the manifold heated to a thousand degrees would explode.

He spotted the problem at the first glance. The fuel hose clamp, a nickel-and-dime metal lock, was gone, loosening the fitting and letting transparent gas drops splash around like of a garden sprinkler. It was an incredible luck the engine was not at full heat yet, but Dean would not take a risk. He took a damp rag and spread it across to cool the area.

That done, Dean turned to see Cas, who was still standing a few feet away, pale and terrified. As Dean approached, he tilted his head.

"Dean—" he started, but Dean cut him off, raising both hands.

"Are you nuts, man?" Dean yelled at him. His fear surfaced out as fury, and he didn't try to control it—not with what Cas nearly allowed to happen. "Damn, you’ve been driving with a gas leak under the hood! What d'ya think it is—a holy water? The whole shit could’ve blown up any minute! Not even a chance to think good-bye world. This was freaking dangerous, Cas!"

Cas raised his dimmed eyes, full of guilt and distress. "I wasn't aware of it."

Dean froze. "What you mean—you weren't aware? You knew the clamp was gone?"

"Yes, but—"

"No, wait a minute. How come you knew that?"

Cas didn't reply. He was gazing somewhere behind Dean's back, his expression blank and lifeless, as if he had seen a ghost.

Something was wrong here, very much wrong, but it took Dean a long minute to figure out what it was. He stormed back to the Lincoln and looked at the odometer. He'd taken the mileage after last time—a standard procedure along with the billing—and remembered the number well enough to see that it only added three miles. Cas had mentioned he lived nearby and the engine was still cold—it didn't take a genius to guess the rest.

"Cas, for hell's sake, why have you been breaking your own damned car?"

He didn't actually expect a reply, but Cas suddenly jerked up his head, eyes rebellious and desperate, and met Dean's glance.

"I was considering asking you out."

"Asking me—" Dean was blinking stupidly, his mouth forming an O in disbelief. "What?"

"Out," Cas repeated helplessly. "For dinner."

"And you didn't find a better way to that than making up all this shit?" Dean snapped. "Hitting bumps, tearing off handles, cutting pipes—that's your idea of dating? No price ever too high?"

"I thought it was safe, Dean," he muttered. "Unfortunately I am no expert in this to estimate properly—"

"Damn right! But I am, and you know what? I don't give a shit about the car, but not about you killing yourself with dead brakes!"

Cas came closer. "I am not that bad, Dean," he said with a sad grin, "I've never touched the brakes. Only the rest, but I didn't think you would find it out."

"All right," Dean said, a new wave of pure anger stirring up in his lungs, breath coming out in gasps. "Okay, dream come true, we are going out. We are going freaking out right now!"

He slammed the Lincoln's door and headed to his Impala without looking back. Cas followed him in silence.

  
*

  
The diner was empty, just the two of them sitting in a corner booth. A sleepy waiter brought coffee, and Cas was sipping at it slowly, avoiding Dean's eyes.

"Cas, why the hell you were playing that bullshit with me? Couldn't you just—say?"

"I didn't think this was appropriate, Dean." He fell silent, all closed up as usual, but this time it was far beyond Dean's patience.

"And why was that?" he asked.

"You were on duty. And … and I wasn't sure you were interested."

Dean felt his lower jaw dropping down. For a few long seconds, he was staring at Cas, wordless and stunned. When the pause shifted from awkward to nearly offensive, he cleared his throat.

"But I am," he said awkwardly. "I've been ... uh ... sort of interested almost since we'd met."

"Oh." Cas said nothing more, just outstretched his hand across the table—a silent suggestion of peace treaty—and stopped midway. His lips suddenly formed a little smile, sheepish and hopeful and uncertain if it was allowed to appear.

Dean didn't hesitate a moment. He covered Cas' hand with his both palms as if in a vague attempt to secure from any future trouble, and pressed it down tight.

"Cas, never do that again." His voice was trembling, silly and helplessly, but he did not care. "Never, dude, that clear? You wanna tell me something—you freaking come and tell. No more damned guessing games. I'm kinda grown up boy to listen, okay? I don't want to find you dead one day just because you'd wanted me at your funeral."

Cas looked up at him, eyes darkened to an even deeper shade of blue.

"I am sorry, Dean," he said at last, and then this dreamy smile was back on his face. "But I don't regret."

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!
> 
> The original full prompt was: "Cas’ car breaks down so he takes it to Bobby’s garage for repairs. Dean is the one who works on the car and Cas develops a huge crush on him. Rather than asking him out like a normal person, he starts breaking things on his car so that he has an excuse to keep bringing it back in to the garage for Dean to work on."  
> I've cut the details to keep a sort of _intrigue_ :)


End file.
